


The Clod & the Pebble (Part I): Innocence

by AngelOfLorien



Series: The Clod & the Pebble [1]
Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arkham Asylum, Bane (DCU) doing Bane things, Blackgate Penitentiary (DCU), Don't know where this is going, Escape, F/M, Hostage Situations, Jonathan Crane Being a Jerk, OC is a book nerd, OC is painfully optimistic, Post-Movie, Slow Burn, Slow To Update, Two-Part Series, bibliotherapy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:46:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24042289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngelOfLorien/pseuds/AngelOfLorien
Summary: Myca Yeats believes in the healing power of the written word. As organizer of the bibliotherapy program at Blackgate Penitentiary, which is currently housing former inmates of Arkham after the asylum was damaged in The Seige, Myca tries to prove through her experimental program that reading calms the idle criminal mind. When Blackgate falls, Myca finds herself at the mercy of Bane, the highly intelligent mastermind who had nearly destroyed the city.
Relationships: Bane (DCU)/Original Female Character(s)
Series: The Clod & the Pebble [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1734298
Comments: 7
Kudos: 25





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea where this is going. Part One is complete but Part Two...who knows?

** INNOCENCE **

_‘Love seeketh not itself to please, nor for itself hath any care,  
But for another gives its ease, and builds a heaven in hell’s despair.’_

The beeping machines helped her keep rhythm, oddly enough. Myca Yeats sat in the uncomfortable vinyl chair, ignoring the sweat that trickled down her back as she read poetry to patient DK8922. The Williams Medical Center granted her access to read to the patients in ICU, even if they were criminals. Most were comatose, either due to their injuries or to the doctors’ wishes, as with 8922. She wasn’t given names; she didn’t need them. Her mission was simple, to gather data for the bibliotherapy outreach program so that she could keep her job. Arkham Asylum might be currently defunct, but they were planning on reopening and transferring the inmates back into psychiatric care rather than have them in Blackgate. If she played her cards right and collected the data she needed, she could prove the theory that the written word had therapeutic capabilities. Allowing the prisoners at Blackgate who had been her test group access to a weekly book loan had not only reduced their violent behavior toward other inmates, but had also catapulted their own creativity. So much so that Ned Ember, who was a lifer convicted of killing sixteen people, had taken to writing poetry of his own and was having a book published next month. The members of the city council labeled her dangerously optimistic, but she had Commissioner Gordon on her side, and after the climax three months ago with the man they called Bane, Jim pulled a lot of weight with the council. If Myca could continue her work, then perhaps she could expand her outreach to the more coherent residents of Arkham. Until she got her numbers, she was content to share literature with Blackgaters as well as the poor souls at Williams who were outbound for either the prison or Arkham, once it was back up and running.

She looked up from her book of poems— _Songs of Innocence and Experience_ by William Blake—and studied the shrouded figure in the bed. She didn’t know who he was or what he was in for, only that he had an obscene amount of injuries and a constant guard of four heavily armed police officers. But, given that he was practically a vegetable at the moment, she wasn’t overly concerned. His heart monitor beeped rapidly all the time, but when she stopped reading it would speed up even more. She made note of his vitals at the time of her arrival and after every fifteen minutes. She stayed with each of her patients for around an hour, but 8922 was always particularly responsive, so she often stayed longer. The deeper the dips in his heart rate, the stronger the proof that literature served to soothe the mind. She smiled to herself and closed her book.

“I’m sorry, Twenty-Two, but it’s time for me to go. I’ll be back around to you on Tuesday though.” She sighed. “I wish I knew what you liked. If I knew your preference I bet your levels would really respond.” She tucked her book back into her messenger bag and slung it over her shoulder, checking her watch. “See you later.”

She left the room, flinching as always at the loud click of the three three-inch bolts locking into place. She really wished she knew who he was. Her curiosity had always gotten her into trouble, but dammit, out of everyone on the floor they acted like the human burrito was the only person who was dangerous. She shook her head and turned away from the bulletproof window.

“On your way out, Mike?”

She smiled at the friendly young cop who worked the night shift guarding 8922. “Yeah. I’ve got an appointment with another of my trials.”

“What nut you got this time?”

Myca arched a brow reproachfully. “I try to avoid labels like that, Pete. I’m going to see Jonathan Crane.”

“You know, Mike, a guy’s gotta wonder about the company you keep.” He said it in jest, but it still had Myca’s hackles rising. She smiled coolly.

“I’m just trying to get people to see the importance of reading, Pete. I’ll see you tomorrow night. I’ve got 23-26 to get to.”

“This guy is your fave though, huh? I notice you spend a lot of time with him.”

She shrugged. “He doesn’t interrupt and can’t complain about what I read. As a librarian who’s used to reading to little kids, that’s as good as gold. See you around, Pete.”

“G’night, Myca.”

She left the hospital and drove immediately to Blackgate Prison. She logged in and showed her credentials at the gate, went through the searches, and ignored the disapproving glances from the guards and the catcalls from the inmates. She followed the guard until they reached the hallway for solitary confinement, where the most brilliant transfers from Arkham had been deposited, lest they incite riots or harm the other prisoners. Myca knew who resided in most of the cells on this block—Edward Nigma and Jervis Tetch, among others—but only a couple were in her program. She approached the four-inch Plexiglas wall that stretched floor to ceiling and tapped it with the tip of her finger. Her participant rolled off his cot and lazily walked to the slot in the glass. He leaned a shoulder against it and looked at her, his handsome face apathetic and bored.

“Well, well, if it isn’t my favorite librarian. How’s daddy?”

“I haven’t seen him,” Myca said. “He got transferred to Stryker’s.”

Jonathan Crane tsked in mock sympathy, sticking out his bottom lip. “And he was such a nice mass murderer.”

“Wasn’t he just? I don’t know why his therapy didn’t take, Dr. Crane,” she said.

Crane grunted and jerked his chin toward the books she held. “I was wondering if your little project was still running,” he said. He smiled, all arrogant genius, even in his madness.

“How are you doing, Jonathan? I mean, you haven’t had any bad…episodes lately, right?”

“You mean do I still have unfulfilled dreams of death and devastation? Of course,” Crane said. “But it’s a bit of a moot point at the mo, isn’t it?” He raked a sneer over her and crossed his arms. “You know this experiment of yours is bullshit, right? Bibliotherapy? The whole concept is naive and unrealistic. Trust me. The tests on the subject are always inconclusive.”

“Oh? Have a lot of experience using it, have you?”

“Need I remind you that I was head psychiatrist at Arkham while most of my contemporaries were eking out ten dollars an hour listening to housewives whine about their husbands?”

“And that worked out _so_ well for you,” Myca said. “Look, do you want these books or not? I mean, this whole thing is a privilege, you know. It took a lot of string pulling for me to get you in on it. Someone who has escaped twice and engaged in your activities of choice isn’t really high on the list of people to give privileges to.”

“So why do it?”

“Because if it helps someone with a busy mind like yours focus on something nondestructive for five minutes, it’s a win. My honesty surprises you?” she asked when his eyebrows rose.

“You never admit to the patient that the results depend on them. They tend to become uncooperative,” he said. “Still, it behooves me to see how fast this train can go before it derails and explodes fiery debris all over the city.”

“That’s the spirit,” Myca deadpanned.

Crane’s lips almost quirked with amusement. “Give me Poe.”

She sighed. “Jonathan, we’ve been through this. I can’t give you Poe. It’s too dark.”

“Fine. Shit. What do you have then?” She held up a tattered copy of _Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland_. “Great. The insane ramblings of an opium addict who may or may not have been Jack the Ripper. Your filtering skills could use a little work, Yeats.” He made her go through her entire stash, just as he had three times a week for two months. In the end, he had gone with a copy of Shakespeare’s comedies, lamenting that if nothing else, perhaps he could use it to bash his own head in.

“Just don’t get any gray matter on the book.”

“You should stick to the library,” Crane said as he sauntered away, flipping through the pages. “Stand-up comedy is not your forte.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new inmate/patient arrives at the newly-reopened Arkaham Asylum.

**One Year Later…**

When the council had voted on whether or not to keep the book program alive, she had presented boatloads of positive evidence based on her trials—including testimony from Ned Ember, as well as the medical stats on patient 8922, who had been moved from ICU to whereabouts unknown shortly before the inquiry—and the council had, surprisingly, elected to keep her outreach going. Arkham Asylum had reopened six months ago in a cold-looking castle given to Gotham by an anonymous donor. It was spacious, more than roomy for the inmates, and was divided based on security level with the genius-insane at the top, followed by the violent-insane, followed by the generally insane. Myca was still able to meet with her volunteers there, though most, she feared, would never actually regain a strong enough hold on their sanity to reenter society. Still, the more lucid patients like Crane were able to enjoy something other than sitting in a cold gray room with violent crazies who were eating crayons and peeing on the potted plants.

She stepped up to Jonathan’s cell and smiled. “Happy birthday. Sorry I don’t have cake.”

“Doesn’t look like you need it. You’ve put on weight.”

Myca ignored the barb. She knew she was considered a little chubby—she’d gained 20 lbs. over the past year and bounced up into a solid size 18, but grabbing take-away nearly every night will do that. Still, she wasn’t short so her height gave her some leeway, pushing her from ‘dumpy’ to ‘womanly’.

“I have a present for you,” she chirped.

Crane uninterestedly approached the clear cell door. “Is it a key?”

“No. Sorry.”

“Then I don’t care.”

She rolled her eyes and passed a prettily wrapped square through the slot. “Hope you enjoy.”

Jonathan fingered the curly green ribbon with a look scorn. “Is this for me to hang myself with?”

“Would you just open it already?”

He sighed as if it tired him to the bone to do such a task, but his derision disappeared momentarily when he pulled the book from the paper. “The Collective Works of Edgar Allen Poe,” he read.

“I figured after this long, surely to goodness you should have your own copy.”

“And what about the concerns that I will use Poe to trigger the fears of others and raze this place to the ground?”

Myca shrugged. “Dr. Bryson says you’ve been rather contained, for the most part. He ok’d it.”

She turned as the voice came over the loudspeaker. “Open hallway for patient arrival.”

“Who’s the new guy?” she asked, waiting for the new prisoner— _patient_ , she reminded herself—to be led around the corner.

“Cash says Bane is our new resident celebrity.” Jonathan leaned down and slipped his hands through the slot, resting on his wrists as he peered through the opening.

“Bane? Like, blow-up-Gotham Bane?”

“Like buddy-of-mine-who-let-me-be-judge-over-civil-court Bane, yes.”

Two guards rounded the corner and Myca’s eyebrows rose. Behind them strode Bane, a massive hulk of a man, though he had clearly lost weight since his last public appearance. He wasn’t abnormally tall, but he was built like a brawler, thick with muscle all around. Without his mask to cover his face, Myca could see the light pink jigsaw-like scars that covered his skin, like a photograph that had been torn apart and taped back together.

“Where’s he been for the past year?” Myca asked. The second she spoke, Bane whipped his head to the side and looked at her, his brows furrowing. She swallowed.

“Williams,” Jonathan said. “Scuttlebutt is he’s just another head case these days. Without his mask to stall pain, he’s not so brutal. It’s too bad, really. He had a lot of potential.”

Myca looked at him and raised a brow. “When you say things like that, my ratings go way down.” She looked back down the hall to where Aaron Cash was depositing Bane into his cell. “I’ll be back by later in the week, Jonathan,” she said absently. “Enjoy your present.”

“I want Lovecraft on Friday.”

“No chance.” She left Jonathan’s cell door and rolled her book cart further down the hall, heading past the guard station that was between Jonathan’s and Bane’s cells. One of the guards stepped in front of her, blocking her path.

“Take it on back, Book Lady.”

“I was going to introduce myself to—“

“What you’re going to do is back it up!”

“Stephens, what’s the problem here?” Cash asked, stepping over. He looked at Myca and sighed. “I don’t think so, Myca.”

“He’s a candidate for my program, Aaron. Bryson said anyone on this level that I felt would benefit—“

“There is no benefitting,” Cash interrupted. “The man is an animal. Pure and simple.”

“Can I please have like two minutes? Two minutes, Aaron, come on. Look at Crane!” she cried, waving a hand toward Jonathan’s cell. “He’s been relatively well-behaved since he has something to stave off boredom. Which would you rather have: a criminal mastermind with all the time in the world on their hands to devise a way to bring this place down, or a criminal mastermind who postponed devising a way to bring this place down long enough to read a novel or two?”

Aaron sighed again. “Is that really the best pitch you got?” She shrugged and he ran a hand through his hair. “Fine. Two minutes. Outside the door, no contact. You want to give him a book, you give it to me or one of my men and we’ll put it in the panel, you got it?”

“Got it,” she said. “It’s not my first day, Aaron.” She rolled forward and opened the hatch on Bane’s cell. She glanced over her shoulder at the guard desk. Cash looked up every few seconds, but the other men milled around aimlessly. She bent back to look into Bane’s cell, frowning when she didn’t see anything. “Mr. Bane?” His face appeared out of nowhere and it was all she could do to quash a startled yelp. “Um, hi. My name is Myca Yeats. I—“

“I know you.”

She was surprised by how deep and gravelly his voice was. She had assumed most of its gruffness was from the mouthpiece on his mask. “I don’t believe so, no. I-I’ve never met you.”

“I know your voice.” His eyes closed briefly and he breathed deep. When he looked at her again, his eyes were clear and calculating. “What do you want? Make it quick, child. I have planning to do.”

She didn’t really like being called child, but it was better than being called old lady so she let it slide. “I’m in charge of the bibliotherapy program that some of the more coherent patients are involved in. I offer a book loan service in exchange for good behavior.”

He stared her in the face for a beat before he laughed at her, his voice as harsh as rusty hinges. “Ah, so you’re the one the guards speak of.” He scoffed. “You have no business here, little ratón. A prison is no place for a mouse.”

“I’m not a mouse. And this isn’t a prison, it’s a hospital.”

He wheezed another half-laugh. “I disagree. But regardless, you should not surround yourself with such company. It is detrimental to one’s soul.”

There was something in his voice, something beneath the anger and condescension, that made Myca feel sad for him. Which was ridiculous. He tried to blow up the entire freaking city.

“Time’s up, Myca,” Cash yelled.

“Are you sure you don’t want to participate? Things are going to be pretty boring in there with nothing to read.” Bane turned around without another word to her, crossing his small cell—r _oom_ , she amended mentally—and lying down on the narrow cot. She frowned, narrowing her eyes at his back, and glanced over her shoulder to where Officer Cash waited impatiently. “Fine. But just so you know, Bane, I’m really tenacious. I don’t give up easily.”

She turned and pushed her cart back down the hall, barely hearing him when he said, “Neither do I, little mouse.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crane has a relapse and Arkham descends into chaos.

“What, no books today?” Crane sneered.

Myca looked at Jonathan sadly through the thick glass of his cell. His face was drawn and dusted with a few days’ worth of whiskers and his skin had an unhealthy pallor that generally followed his bouts of insanity. Three days prior, Crane had set two inmates on each other by playing on their fears and paranoia, and then proceeded to beat an orderly when the man tried to stop his escaping while the others were distracted. In the end, one of the inmates had been admitted to the infirmary for a bruised larynx and the orderly had gone home with three busted ribs. Myca had received notice the next day that Crane was henceforth terminated from the bibliotherapy program and that the program itself was under review. 

“Are you feeling better?” she asked.

Crane’s lips curved gently in a tired, mocking smirk. “I would feel much better if I had actually escaped.”

“You were on the fourth floor, Jonathan. What exactly was your plan?”

“I think the bigger question of the moment is why are you bothering me? What sort of irresponsible asshole lets a civilian roam around this level of Arkham? I’m not in your program anymore, Yeats.”

“I know. I’m not here for you, specifically. Since I was on this hall, I just wanted to check— “

“Don’t check. _Stop_ checking. I’m not your friend, I’m not your ally, and in case you missed it, I would easily kill you to see even the simplest of my goals met.”

Myca drew in a slow breath and nodded. “You’ve certainly got a way with words, Dr. Crane.” She shook her head at him and turned away.

She headed for the cell at the end of the hall, fighting the bitterness of defeat. After the disaster with Jonathan and the obviousness that her program wasn’t really working, she didn’t know why she was even bothering with Bane. Still, she was nothing if not a creature of habit, and since he’d arrived three weeks ago, she’d been to his cell every time she’d been to Jonathan’s.

She slid open the slot on his door and leaned down to peer inside. He was exercising, doing push-ups off the floor with his feet in a chair. Though he wasn’t as big as he had been when he’d taken over the city, his arms were still roped with muscle. His jaw was tightly clenched and Myca wondered if it was because of the strain of his workout or due to pain. She knew that Dr. Bryson had been giving him pain medication, but she doubted it did much to dull anything after having access to the chemicals in his mask. According to Bryson, the detox had nearly killed him.

“Little mouse, has no one told you it is rude to stare?”

She smiled reluctantly. Of course he knew she was there. He lowered himself to the floor and uncurled, straightening and rolling his shoulders before turning and facing her. She tucked her hair behind her ear as he approached.

“Good evening.”

“Is it?” he asked, raising a scarred eyebrow. “From what I understand, Dr. Crane’s behavior has put an end to your employment.”

“Where’d you hear that?” Myca asked, leaning toward the door.

“I have ears. The guards talk.” He walked toward the door and rested an arm against it, bringing his face close to the slot. “And, I must say, their words aren’t particularly flattering to you. Most feel that you’re a danger to yourself. Is that so, ratón?”

“Don’t call me mouse,” she sighed. “And no, I’d like to think I’m not a danger to myself. Still, I don’t guess it really matters. Like you said, my job at Arkham is probably kaput.”

His full lips curved, stretching the light pink scar that cut across them. “I have no doubt that it is for the best. A tenacious little thing like you will have no problem finding other employment.” The way he said tenacious made her wonder if he appreciated the trait. She mentioned as much to him and he shrugged a shoulder. “Tenacity, like so many strong traits, have all but fallen by the wayside in today’s societies.”

“You speak as if you lament the fact.”

“Perhaps I do.”

“But why? You seized control of Gotham. Wouldn’t the lack of those traits be beneficial to you?”

“And who would I gather to fight for my cause? Certainly not the weak.”

“You were going to blow everyone up anyway!”

“That was not the issue at the time, though, was it?”

“Maybe not to you, but it was sort of a big deal to us.”

He looked amused by her outrage. “Technically, were it not for my actions, the city of Gotham would never have rallied together to overthrow hostilities. Your city would have either been destroyed from within by its own corruption or by my bomb. Why, as a matter of fact, I believe some thanks are in order.”

She hooked her hands on the slot and stuck her face close as she goggled at him. “Are you _serious_? Where does your reasoning come from?” she asked, half teasing. “To quote Blake, in what furnace was thy brain?”

Without warning, Bane snatched her wrist from the opening and pulled her forward until her forearm was in his cell. All good humor was gone, in its place a startling intensity. She struggled momentarily though she knew that he could break her arm with little effort.

“Let me go.”

“Think you to give me orders?”

She tugged against his grip, but his warm hand was securely wrapped around her wrist. “Don’t…”

His free hand began to trace the shadows of the veins in her arm from wrist to elbow. His voice changed, taking on a sort of dreamy quality as if he were somehow transported from the depressing surroundings of Arkham and placed in a more tranquil setting. “You came to me, didn’t you, when I was recovering? For hours you’d stay. You, with your silly books.” He smiled absently, his fingers still brushing her skin.

“You…you were one of the patients at Williams?” Her mind raced, trying to place which patient had his face, but she came up blank. She hadn’t seen him… “Oh my god, you were patient twenty-two,” she realized. She forgot her struggles and stared at him, mouth agape. “But how—you were unconscious, barely alive. How do you remember me reading to you?”

His voice returned to normal, back to its characteristic gruffness. “Eidetic memory. I was conscious occasionally, therefore when you spoke, I recognized the voice. It took a bit to place from where I remembered it—I had been rather busy prior to hospitalization. But it was from there that I know you.” He changed his grip on her, placing two strong fingers over her pulse. “Your heart is racing. Are you frightened, little mouse?”

“No.”

He laughed mockingly. “Of course not.” His eyes shifted past her and he tossed her arm away from him. She immediately pulled it from the slot. “Your friend Mr. Cash is approaching. Try to pull yourself together.”

Myca frowned at him. Her skin tingled from where he had squeezed her wrist, but it was his lighter, absentminded touches that had her rubbing her arm.

“What’s going on here?” Cash asked her.

She snapped the sliding door on the slot shut. “Nothing. I was talking to Bane about the impending doom of my program.”

“Jesus, this isn’t a social network, Myca. You can’t just chitchat with the inmates. These are dangerous people.”

“I know they’re dangerous,” she snapped. She knew who and what was housed here. Her father had been a resident until the courts had declared him competent. Then, when the patients were sent to Blackgate, she had seen their violence flourish. So when people treated her as if she were a meddlesome child playing make-believe, it got her back up. “If I required your assistance, officer, I would let you know. I am fully capable of taking care of myself.”

“Really? Because the fact that you are buddy-buddy with both Scarecrow _and_ Bane tends to give me the opposite impression.” Cash’s radio crackled and one of the other guards informed him of a disturbance on the second floor. He placed a hand on Myca’s back and gave a slight shove toward the desk. “You sit here until I get back. I can’t send you down until the floor is cleared. _Don’t move_ ,” he said emphatically, pointing at her. “I mean it, Myca. Park it.”

She slouched into the chair behind the counter and crossed her arms over her chest. Cash headed for the stairwell. “Hey, Aaron? Be careful.”

He tossed a wave over his shoulder and went down the stairs. Myca looked up the hallway, back toward Bane’s cell. He’d not been given a glass room like Jonathan so she couldn’t see him. Still, her eyes strayed back to the door. Bane was a quandary, no doubt having the wits and will to destroy Gotham—and any other city he wished—but also appreciating strength of character in those who opposed him.

“I think someone has a crush.”

Myca looked up and scowled at Jonathan, who was in the corner of his cell watching her. “Don’t talk to me, Crane.”

He crossed his arms and ankles, resting his head against the glass with a mocking grin. “Ooo, somebody doesn’t take candidness well.”

“Really? Jonathan, you admitted no more than fifteen minutes ago that you would not only kill me, but do it easily. That’s not candor, that’s being an asshole.”

Before he could reply, a loud rumble shook the floor, so hard that Myca had to grab the desk to steady her chair. She looked up, surprised, and saw Crane staring at the floor in his cell with a strange expression.

“What was that?” she asked.

He smiled and lifted his head slowly, his blue eyes all but glowing with glee. “Changing of the guard.”

“What?” Another wave hit, this time closer, jostling Myca to the floor. She could smell it now—smoke and fire. She picked up the radio lying on the desk. “Hello? This is guard desk 4B. What is going on below?”

The radio crackled and squeaked. Myca could barely discern the voice on the other end when he said, “The prisoners are rioting! I’ve got three men down! Lock your block down and get to the exit!”

“What section are they in?”

“They’re overrunning this floor. Some are heading up—" The transmission ended abruptly.

“Hello? Hello!”

“Oh, dear. That’s probably not a good sign.”

Myca glanced at Crane and tucked the walkie in her back pocket, cursing the fact that she had to leave her cell phone at the primary reception desk. She rounded the corner and hurried down the hallway toward the stairs. She grunted when the door flew open and a person shot through it, slamming into her.

“We gotta get you out of here,” Cash said, taking her by the arm. “The back stairs.”

“What’s happening, Aaron?”

He heaved a vending machine over to rest in front of the door before leading her back down the hall. “A fight broke out downstairs. One of the inmates used it as a distraction and made it to the desk to unlock the block. After that, I don’t know. Everything happened pretty fast. My men were getting overrun. A few took off as soon as the doors were opened.”

“Was that an explosion?” Myca asked as she hurried to keep up with Cash. He still held her arm and was practically dragging her down the hall. The patients screamed and shouted in their rooms, some in fear and confusion, some in maniacal excitement.

“Yeah. Elevators in the east wing. I got officers getting the administrators out on one, but…”

“But what?”

“The inmates are moving fast. If we don’t get you down and out now…we’re pretty much on our own, Myca. At least until backup gets in. So get a move on.”

The taste of fear was sharp in her mouth. She knew how to handle herself in a situation like being mugged or something, but she wasn’t a soldier. As she ran beside Cash, she knew that if they got pinned down, for the most part Aaron would be fighting alone. She ran faster. _Damn the person who built this place_ , she thought. The floor plan reflected a sort of sick humor, each level of the asylum having a different layout. They turned onto the block that housed Jonathan and Bane, and Myca heard the sound of the vending machine crash to the floor. Some of the inmates had made it upstairs.

“What’s the rush, Yeats?” Crane called as they hurried past his cell.

She could hear the rioting inmates shouting now, their voices echoing eerily off the walls. She and Cash had just bolted past Bane’s cell when an alarm sounded. The red lights on the ceiling flashed blindingly and Cash cursed.

“They opened the block. Myca, do you remember the way to the back stairs?”

“Yeah, I memorized each floor. But you can’t—“

“I have to try to contain them, or at least hold them off. It’s my job, Myca. You’re a civilian. I need you to get out.”

“Let me help you. Let me at least try!” she shouted, but Cash was already shaking his head.

“Get downstairs. Somewhere hidden. Or try to get to the parking lot. Stay as small as possible, and try not to be seen. The city will send in riot police. They should be here within the hour.”

“Aaron, come with me. Please!”

A stream of inmates appeared at the end of the hallway. Myca could see familiar faces in the crowd—Gotham’s most notorious villains. Cash gave her a shove. “Go!”

Hating herself, she turned and ran. She didn’t look back. Tears streamed down her face as she fought to control her panic.

She could very well die today.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Myca has no choice but to escape, taking a couple of villains with her.

She heard footfalls to her right and ducked into an alcove, letting a group of four or five men stride past. If she could make it a few more blocks, she’d be at the back stairs. She just hoped it wasn’t blocked or guarded.

Myca slipped around the corner, keeping low and close to the wall. She had barely made it three steps before a herd of men came out of one of the locker rooms. The leader of the group, a short, bulky man with ginger hair and yellowed teeth, eyed her with a menacing grin.

“Well,” he drawled. “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a prize for good behavior.”

She straightened, debating on whether to fight or run. She was unarmed and alone. The three men in front of her had stolen clubs. It was a short debate. She turned and ran the opposite direction. She knew they’d follow, but she had to hope that she was faster. She went back around the corner and burst through the double doors of the infirmary, diving between the exam table and the wall. With any luck, they would bypass the room completely.

The doors to the infirmary swung inward and Myca barely suppressed the need for a hysterical cussfit.

“Where are you, bitch?” the man called before he whistled, as if calling a dog. A couple of others laughed and chuckled. She pressed closer to the wall, willing herself to be as small as physically possible. The doors clanged open as another man ran inside.

“Pertucci got that cop from up here,” he panted. “He and his boys are playing with him up near the elevators.”

“Where you going? What about the woman?”

“We can get another woman. I want to pay that cop back.” Bile rose in Myca’s throat at the menace in the voice. “You coming?”

Her pursuer cursed and followed the crowd out of the infirmary. Myca waited a long moment before carefully moving from her hiding spot. She pulled herself from beneath the table and quietly rose to her feet, creeping to the small porthole window in the infirmary door and checking the hallway. A hand clamped over her mouth as an arm scooped around her waist, drawing her back against a warm, firm body. Myca struggled and kicked, clawing at the hand that covered her mouth. She felt breath on her neck, warm lips against her ear.

“Every night and every morn, some to Misery are born,” Bane quoted.

A shiver raced through her as his deep voice rumbled in his chest, vibrating through her back. She stopped struggling. There really was no point anyway, considering Bane could snap her in half with hardly any effort. Besides, she had a feeling that if he was going to hurt her right then, he wouldn't be quoting Blake.

As she calmed, he slid his hand from her mouth to rest on her throat. She breathed deeply through her nose and tried to slow her racing heart. She leaned forward, trying to get some distance from him, but he kept her held firmly against his chest. If anything, he drew her more fully to his body, arm tightening around her waist as a very masculine sound escaped his throat.

“You have a code of honor," she said, trying to keep her voice steady. "You wouldn't do anything to hurt me if I'm no threat to you."

He chuckled again and applied a bit of pressure to her throat. “True, little mouse. All the same, it has been a very long time since I've felt the softness of woman's body against my own. I am just a man, after all, and you are very soft.”

Myca was surprised by the streak of heat that took root low in her belly at his words. She cleared her dry throat and looked over her shoulder at him as best she could. “Those men are going to kill Aaron. I have to do something to stop them.”

“There's nothing you can do,” he said matter-of-factly. “Your friend is dead. Or if not, he no doubt wishes it so.”

She stumbled forward when he released her suddenly. “I can’t just—”

“If you do not wish to meet a particularly violent end, I suggest you put it out of your mind. Do you know another exit?”

“Um, yes. It…there’s a fire exit. The stairwell leads to the back of the building.”

“Show me.”

Her eyes widened. “I can’t! I can’t help you escape. I’d go to jail!”

His gaze turned sharp, and he crowded in on her, using his size to threaten. He cocked his head to the side and jerked his chin toward the hallway, where shouts and screams echoed. “You can risk jail or hell, little ratón. The choice is yours.”

She stared at a scar that bisected his clavicle and weighed her options, such as they were. “I need your guarantee that you won’t kill me as soon as I get you to those stairs.”

The corners of his mouth lifted. “And if I cannot give it?”

She met his eyes, setting her jaw with a bravado she didn’t feel. “Then good luck finding your way out of here. This place is like an Escher painting. You’ll never get out without me to guide you.”

“Perhaps no mouse after all,” he mused, features softening as he searched her face. “Very well. Show me a way out of this pit and I will ensure you live beyond today.”

“We can cut through this way,” she said, ducking under his arm and leading him through the infirmary. She bent and took off her pumps, rolled her stockings down and tossed them aside. If she had to run again, she wouldn’t be clomping through the corridors like a Clydesdale.

They came across a body, but Myca didn’t recognize the officer. His face was bloody pulp, features completely obscured. Bane knelt beside him, rifling through pockets. The officer’s gun, she noted, had already been taken. She led him through the labyrinthine hallways, stopping only when another patient appeared. Most, it seemed, were at the other end of the wing or had gone to join the fray on the lower levels. Those who remained paid them little mind.

“It isn’t much further,” she panted, jogging down the last stretch of hall. “Just around this—”

At the intersection, Myca collided with a body and tumbled back, only remaining upright because Bane caught her shoulders.

“Hey!” Jonathan crowed, grinning maniacally. “You actually made it, Yeats. Holy shit, I can’t believe it.” He grabbed her arm and hauled her behind him. “Good. Needed a bargaining chip. Now, where the hell’s that fire escape? I could’ve sworn—”

“Jonathan, let go of me!” She tugged against his hold, throwing a panicked glance back at Bane. He blinked slowly, watching Crane lead her away. _Lying bastard!_ She planted her feet, dragging him off balance. She kicked him in the hip, shoving him away.

He cursed and caught her again, wrapping an arm around her neck and squeezing. “The door,” he hissed. “Where is it?”

Spots danced in front of her eyes, but she shook her head as much as his hold would allow. Crane heaved an exaggerated sigh and covered her face with his free hand, setting the hold to smother her or break her neck, she wasn’t sure which. She bit him, drawing blood, but he just tightened his arm with a murmur of pain.

“Enough.”

The quiet voice was music to her ears, which just showed her how screwed she was. Bane appeared at her side, stoic as ever, eyes locked on Crane.

“Bane! Buddy!” Jonathan said, releasing her. She braced against the wall, desperately sucking in air. A confused frown flashed across Crane’s face and he pointed. “She’s with you?” He grunted thoughtfully, then shrugged. “You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you, bookworm?”

“The stairwell,” Bane said, lifting her to her feet.

She pointed to a door at the end of the hall, painted so that it blended in. Were it not for the small keypad beside it, no one would have noticed it was there. Bane nudged her forward and she hurried over, keying in the emergency code. The door opened with a soft hiss.

“This stairwell leads to the parking lot out back. Most of the inmates don’t even realize it’s here, so it should be clear.” She threw a wary glance at Jonathan, who was watching their backs in case anybody else came around the corner. Was she really about to help someone as sadistic as Crane escape just to save her own ass?

Bane must’ve sensed her hesitation. “There will be time for you to question your morals later, little mouse. When you are alive and well outside these walls.” Without waiting, his large hand clutched hers and he started down the stairs.

She had to run to keep up with him and she kept losing her balance. She gasped when she thought she was going down, but he tugged, righting her without breaking his stride. They had only one flight left when a haunting cackle echoed down the stairs. From behind them, Crane clucked his tongue.

“Well, looks like Jack found the door,” he muttered. “Nice going, Myca. You let the Joker out.”

“Wha—shut up, Jonathan!”

Bane shoved against the door with enough force to break the padlock. Rusty chains rattled to the concrete and Myca gulped in fresh air. Her heart raced, pulse pounded in her ears, blocking all other sounds momentarily. She looked frantically around, hoping to see GCPD setting up. But the lot was still empty, the wail of sirens still so distant they were scarcely noticeable.

“Well,” Crane said. “It’s been real, but time for me to take off. Lots to do—destruction to plan, chaos to orchestrate. It’s gonna be a busy few weeks.” He pointed at her, a smug, sardonic smile making his bright blue eyes twinkle. “Couldn’t’ve done it without you, Yeats. Looks like your stupid bibliotherapy idea wasn’t as useless as I thought.” He winked and turned, long legs carrying him quickly away from Arkham.

“Come,” Bane said, jerking her forward again.

She stepped on a bolt, the cold metal rolling beneath her bare foot as he dragged her away from the asylum. “Ow! Son of a—let me go, dammit!” She went boneless, collapsing to the dirty pavement and pulling her hand free of his heavy grip. She shoved her hair out of her face as the weight of what had happened collapsed on her fully. “I did what you asked. I got you to the stairs. Go! Go on! You’re out now, free to kill and maim and destroy at your leisure.” Tears streamed down her cheeks and her breaths came in ragged gasps. “And every person who dies by your hands, their blood’ll be on mine as well. So go! Go make me a murderer, make me just like my father.” She bowed her head, shoulders heaving with each shuddering sob.

Bane knelt next to her, elbows on knees, peering at her with carefully controlled interest. “Come, mouse,” he said again, quietly. “The police will arrive soon.”

“Fuck off!” she shouted when his warm fingers curled around her bicep. “I got you out. I got you out, now you have to let me go. That was the deal.”

“That was not our agreement,” he said, surprising her.

Her head jerked up, and her eyes, though still shining with tears, narrowed dangerously. “What do you mean that wasn’t our agreement? It most certainly was! You said you wouldn’t kill me—”

“I did,” he interrupted, nodding once. His full lips curved, the thin scar that slashed across them pulling tight. “But I made no mention of your leaving my side once we were out. I have a use for you.”

She scrambled to her feet, looking aghast. “I’m not going with you.” She backed away from him, guilt and grief temporarily replaced by alarm. She pointed toward the sound of sirens. “When the police get here, I’m going to give my statement and pray they don’t throw me in lockup.”

He slowly rose, a bemused expression on his face. For each step backward she took, he moved forward. He lunged, moving quickly for one so big, and wrapped his large hand around the back of her neck. He squeezed tightly, shaking his head at her.

“Don’t fight me. You will not win.” He pressed harder on the sides of her neck, blocking blood flow. Darkness crept around the edges of her vision. “Just give in.”

“No,” she breathed, eyes closing.

The world went black, and the last thing she felt when her knees buckled was a pair of strong arms catching her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of Part One.   
> If anyone has suggestions or ideas for part two, let me know! I haven't decided where I'm going with this now that they are out and about.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
